Brothers of Paradise Series

Then he disappears down the street, his tall form heading toward the band of blue that glitters in the far distance. I watch him for a few extra seconds.

Emma is awake when I get home, but she’s still in bed, rubbing her eyes. “Mommy?”

“It’s me,” I say. “Come down when you’re ready, okay? I’ll get breakfast started.”

“Pancakes?”

“Not today, sweetheart.”

She makes a disapproving sound and turns over in bed. Other parents talk about children who bounce out of bed, but Emma has always been a mini-teenager in that regard. She loves sleeping.

I don’t start my shift at the yacht club until after lunch, so I spend the morning working on the designs for the website in the backyard. Mom’s computer dies on me twice, but it gets the job done. Slowly.

Mom sits next to me and watches Emma play with the bubbles again. “She needs friends,” she says. “Do any of your old high school friends have kids?”

I take a sip of my ice tea. “Yes.”

“That would be great, you know. A playdate or something. Or I could take her along to the playground over by the mall some day?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, actually. We could all go. Maybe on Saturday.”

Mom makes a humming sound and looks back down at the book she’s reading. But she’s not quiet for long. “Emma said something interesting. Yesterday.”

My hand stills on the trackpad. “Did she?”

“Yes. It was about her dad.”

“Oh.”

“Honey… what happened there?”

I stare at the screen. I want to sink into it, to become one with the pixels. To never hear or see again. “What did Emma say?”

“Nothing much. I opened a new pack of playing dough, you know the one I bought at the dollar store last week?”

“Yes.”

“And she hesitated before playing with it.” Mom shakes her head, her eyes on Emma in the distance. “She said her dad hated it… and she wanted to ask you first if it was okay.”

I close my eyes. “Right.”Content provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

“It didn’t feel right, honey. A six-year-old isn’t supposed to think like that.”

“She’s allowed to think any way she wants.”

“Yes, of course, but… you never asked for permission.”

“Well, I’m me, and Emma’s Emma.”

“I asked if she missed her father.”

“Mom!”

She shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s not a weird question. She hasn’t spoken about him once since you two got here, and neither have you. Honey… I don’t mean to pry… But I’ll be here to listen if you want to talk about it. You know that.”

I run a hand over my face. It feels damp from my post-workout shower, and I know I should get ready for my shift. Close down this monster of a computer and flee from the questions.

“Did he hurt you?” Mom asks. There’s hesitation in her voice. “Hurt… Emma?”

“No. Never,” I say.

“To the first? Or the second?”

“Lee never raised a hand to either of us. That wasn’t his way.”

She exhales. “All right. Well, that’s something, I suppose. Does he know where you are?”

“He might suspect, but he doesn’t know.” I push back from the chair and stay for another moment, watching the sun glint off Emma’s hair. She’s laughing, now, as burst of bubbles rises to the sky. Last night she’d insisted on drawing another boat, and it had three barely discernible people on it this time. One of them had a funny-looking head. It’s a captain’s hat, Emma had informed me grandly.

“Well,” Mom says. “You two belong with me, and if he ever questions that, he’ll have another thing coming.”

I put a hand on her shoulder and feel a million years old. That isn’t Lee’s way either. His is insidious, manipulative words and sweet compliments that turn sour in a matter of seconds. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, sweetie.”

PARKER

The Junior Sailing Regatta is one of Paradise Shores’ biggest summer events.

My mother, bless her heart, has been on the organizing committee for the past decade. They’re a group of fearsome Paradise locals who oversee the whole thing like commanders rallying their troops.

And they’ve chosen my restaurant as their war room.

Stephen stops by my side, a pinched look on his face. “I just heard them mention a last-minute addition of bouncy castles.”

“Oh.”

“To be here, in the yacht club’s parking lot.”

“Oh. Thank you,” I say, and head over to stave off this disaster. Mom is at the head of the table, her hair up in a French twist-she had informed me it was called that just a few hours earlier. Neil is also at the table, by necessity, as he manages the regatta itself. He’s wearing the old sailing club jacket, logo faded on his chest.

Bouncy castles.

I clear my throat and inform them in no uncertain terms to nix that idea.

“None at all?” John McIntyre says. He’s staring at me across the table with all the ferocity of a general.

I shake my head. “My head chef needs our entire parking lot for the unloading and loading of supplies. We’re manning all the food stalls out front.”